


sempiternal

by ThatCertainNutLady



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: F/M, and then i come back to dump this piece of shit on y'all im SORRY, lmao me not posting for months?, trying to branch out and write other stuff besides lesbians bc yknow thats all im gonna be good for
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-09
Updated: 2018-12-09
Packaged: 2019-09-15 07:15:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16928862
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThatCertainNutLady/pseuds/ThatCertainNutLady
Summary: series of one-shots between Akande and Widowmaker because they don't get enough love.





	sempiternal

He sees her silhouette behind the steam, all graceful and dynamic as ever; but she is like a figure encased in glass. One he has been warned not to touch. The swan that he had taken for his own, ruined, and then left to rot in her own head. He does not feel anything other than love for her, though, even though his conscience is less than clear. 

She is dancing. He didn’t even think she could remember how, after all these years.

Amidst the slick floors and the burning showers and the soap suds traveling down her spine, the Widowmaker dances. Those prosthetic legs that he demanded be fitted to her click against the tiles beneath her as she rises onto her toes, raising her arms, leaving nothing to the imagination. 

She is, by all means, beautiful. And she is his. 

He knows that he’s a damn fool for wanting her, for seeing her despite their separate statuses. Yes, they have both dedicated their lives to fighting, but his was by choice. This was his destiny.

Can she still remember Gerard after all these years?

Akande feels his heart skip a beat as those plump lips part, humming a gentle melody that nobody else but him could hear. The Widowmaker must know that he is here, and yet she still holds herself high, her hands traveling over the dips and curves of her body that make him fall for her again and again. 

She is too good not to know that he isn’t here, anyways. They had created her like this. He had created her like this.

Slowly, deftly, Akande finds himself stepping towards her. He is drawn to her movements, to her lilted voice clouded with one of an emotionless murderer. She looks so beautiful, all helpless and wanting, and he can only help her by sliding open the flimsy curtain and seeing for himself what he was truly missing.

He doesn't even have to address her. Merely clearing his throat has her standing to attention, the hot stream of water still flowing down her front side. Muscle memories ingrained into her after months of pain and suffering, now for the strength to pass herself along as a weapon.

Akande can’t stand to look at her.

He is still clothed, while she is fully nude. An impressive power stance, if one were looking in without context. Power over her, that he despises. It’s perverted. 

And yet? It is their fates.  
“Good girl.” He murmurs, those deft, calloused hands of his settling just behind her neck, cupping the back of her head. Her hair is long, he notes. Longer than when he last got to see her like this.

She seems to react positively to the praise, ochre eyes never leaving him, but her form seems to loosen. Only slightly. She does not speak. Akande has not given her permission to, after all. 

He hates this part, where she has to be ‘broken in’, for lack of a better phrase. Once the Widowmaker no longer flinched at his movements, once she began lowering those eyelids, the side that he fell in love with would resurface. Not Amélie, or the Widowmaker.  
Someone in-between, someone unknown to the rest of Talon.

Amélie would despise him, she’d lay her hands on his body and rip cybernetic prosthetic from flesh and blood and scream at the top of her lungs of how she wished Akande to the deepest pits of hell. He knows this, because as she screamed and clawed at her own flesh, apologizing for thinking that peace would ever be an option, she cursed him to fall in love with the monster she would become.

Widowmaker wouldn't be much better, either. She had been built for him to command. He could make her slaughter her doctors and then throw herself off the nearest building if he wished. He could demand her to share his company if he truly wished it, he could demand her in a new dress, demand her on her back...

The thought is repulsive.

His hand shakes as it grips the back of her head, the way her eyes remain fixed on his own, torturing him. It feels wrong to touch her, to have her like this. He wants to know if she feels the same for him that he does for her.

‘ Don’t be ridiculous, Akande. She can’t feel. That’s the point, isn't it? ‘

The steam rises along with the water’s temperature. The Widowmaker’s hand comes up to caress his clean-shaven face as she turns the knob of the water heater up. 

The result is scalding, but Akande has felt worse. Besides, it’s the way that she rises onto her toes and plants her lips on his own that makes his heart soar and lets him forget the boiling water beating on his skin and clothing. 

Those slender arms of hers move past his chest and rest above his shoulders, holding him close. She is freezing, that translucent skin seeming to bleed through as the water continues to pour down on the two of them. 

Time freezes as the Widowmaker pulls away, descending from her high pointes and letting her head nestle into his water-soaked chest. Akande lets himself be pulled closer, closer until their bodies conform to each other. Freezing cold flesh interlocks with his own, and his lips pull into a smile.

It’s almost pure bliss. He knows that it won’t last forever.

“I can leave, Amé--” Akande starts, but the Widowmaker shushes him. She begins to sway in time to her own little tune, and he follows suit.

“Non. This is…” She mutters, thinking to herself for a mere moment before her eyelids flutter and her breathing becomes heavier. The Widowmaker is warm, after so many years of being freezing cold. She can feel her heart, the heart that she prided on never beating, swell with emotion that she’s been forced to repress. 

And just for a moment, with the gentle beating of water on the floor, and the rise and fall of Akande’s chest pressed against her ear, the Widowmaker is content. 

“...This is fine.”


End file.
